


Florida Blues

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Missing Scene, agua mala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Mulder and Scully stay the night at Arthur Dales' to let the storm pass. Set post-Agua Mala.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I actually really liked Agua Mala and it would be a great episode if it wasn’t so stupidly racist. It was tense as hell between Mulder & Scully and showcased an emotional continuity the show typically struggles with.
> 
> ALSO: shameless plug, but follow me at wtfmulder.tumblr.com for like, conversations about the series and cool indignant rants.

Mulder consciously made the effort not to drink very often - certainly not with his blood, past, and complete inability to deal with life in a healthy and constructive manner. He almost politely declined when Arthur Dales placed a tray with two amber-filled tumblers between them. Watching Scully knock back the drink without a moment’s hesitation or even the customary wince one affects when slamming down entirely too much liquor, Mulder took a few weary sips, studying her oddly from the corner of his eye.

“My kind of girl,” Dales laughed, lifting his glass and tipping it back. Eyeing his own mostly-full glass, Mulder felt a little inadequate.

“Mind if I borrow your phone, Mr. Dales?” Scully pulled out her cell and shook it, grimacing at the impossible amount of water that cascaded from the keys. “I need to make a few calls to Washington.”

He waved her away and topped off her glass for when she returned. Sparing a glance at Mulder’s sad little tumbler, he screwed the cap back on the bottle. “You guys are welcome to stay ‘til the storm passes. I figure the airport’ll be open come morning.”

“Thanks, yeah,” Mulder replied distractedly. He could hear Scully making the reservations for that very thing over the phone. She said the words “ten a.m.” and knew they’d be bunking there for the night.

Dales went into some sardonic tale of a case-file Mulder remembered vaguely, occasionally veering off-topic in the way old men did, and for the most part Mulder was enraptured, pausing the story to ask questions and laughing in all the right places. He wore that look of boyish hero-worship that disturbed and tickled Dales. The ex-cop didn’t notice when Mulder’s eyes began to stray and the questions became few and then none at all.

After making their flight reservations, Scully dialed once again, and already Mulder was intrigued. This wasn’t a Bureau matter. Scully wouldn’t be checking in with Kersch or placing a request to Requisitions. Somehow he had talked her into a weekend of good old-fashioned monster-chasing, even now, when he was pretty sure she’d be delighted to see his body on her autopsy table. A weekend and a sick day with this this flight delay.  
  
When Scully’s voice took on a tone of intimacy, the tone one inflects when trying to remain unheard by others in the room, Mulder forgot Dales was talking to him at all. Dales didn’t notice.

“No of course . . . I didn’t plan on - mom.” Scully let her mother chastise her some more. Mulder wasn’t close enough to hear what was being said. “No mom, it’s the second birthday since - I know that, I really do, but there’s a storm . . .”

Mulder was a trained investigator who knew how to connect a few dots. Birthday. His mind conjured up an image of two plane tickets, unceremoniously slapped into the palm of Scully’s hand, leaving for February 21st. That was two days ago. Which meant . . .

“Tell Bill I said hi and I’ll try and call later,” she wouldn’t, “And I love you guys. You make every birthday special. We’ll celebrate when I’m back in town.”

Mulder felt worse that he didn’t feel all that bad. A birthday celebration with Bill and his perfect white picket dream-life would only depress Scully. But that wasn’t all. Long ago he’d pretty much figured Scully would be there when she was needed, no matter the day. He took it for granted, maybe, but here she was, on her birthday, shivering and bone-tired in a seedy trailer park. It was normal. It was right.

Arthur fed them all frozen dinners in front of a black and white television, grumbling while the reception wavered off and on and handing Scully the bottle of whiskey without even looking at her. Staring mindlessly at the fuzzy screen, Scully took a big gulp straight from the bottle and passed it back.

Her on the couch, Mulder in the armchair. The night sat above them and the silence between them, as obvious as the dark sky but just as elusive.

She wasn’t sleeping. She wore her drunkenness like a heavy body lying on top of her as she breathed hard and splayed her limbs about. Mulder watched her in the dark.

“Happy birthday, Scully,” he said.

“Thanks, Mulder.”


End file.
